The divine Ms. Frye has challenged me to write a story with the following terms: “Christopher Cross,” “champagne,” “linoleum,” “Etruscan sculpture,” “werewolf” and “Australia cricket.”

So here goes:

STORY:

Chris stared at the kitchen linoleum. It looked quite sparkling and amazing after about two bottles of champagne. Of course, to appreciate linoleum, it helped to be as close to the surface as possible. But Chris was at an advantage here, given that the champagne had essentially stopped him from standing, knocking his ass quite savagely onto the floor.

It occurred to Chris, as his tongue licked the tile while he waited for the feeling to return to his arms and legs (anything to stave off boredom), that he had not yet seen an Etruscan sculpture. Clearly, there was a disadvantage to being an agarophobic. He’d hit Italy one day, if he could find the appropriate specialist who might be able to help him understand the outside world. Assuming he could even make it into the outside world.

He’d obtained the champagne by calling a friend. He had to celebrate the New Year somehow. And he figured that he couldn’t handle Dick Clark on the teevee without ingesting some kind of substance. So he would need champagne to cope as he heard the screams outside of people enjoying themselves.

But what Chris didn’t know was that his friend was a werewolf. The primary reason his friend had moved to Pacifica was because it was foggy most of the time and there was no chance that he’d turn into a werewolf anytime soon, given that the fog would occlude great Helios. Sure, there had been a stint in Sydney, where he’d become a devout participant in Australian cricket. And he’d been very good. But the minute that they had shifted to night games, Chris’s friend had reneged on his dependability, given that he was a furry monster hoping to mawl some insignificant human — ideally, a human resources manger or some other person who didn’t contribute all that much to society at large.

Nevertheless, the champagne was had without bloodshed. For the fog had once again protected Chris’s best friend.

Chris had made the mistake of leaving the FM radio on. At the precise moment when Chris was prepared to fall asleep in a particularly shameful and ridiculous locale, Christopher Cross began to sing on the radio. This disturbed Chris, as Chris didn’t particularly trust anyone who shared his Christian name.

But with great endurance, Chris was able to survive the terrible Christopher Cross music. And he soon settled to sleep onto the kitchen linoleum.

Unfortunately, when Chris caught a bit of alcohol-induced shuteye, during stage one, the fog had lifted from the town. And it was a full moon. And his friend, unable to control his urges, found himself a meal. What Chris hadn’t known is that his friend had been the famed singer Chrisopher Cross all along.

If there was a winner in this tragic tale, it was the linoleum. For when the appropriate authorities had cleaned the place up, the linoleum had demonstrated to the landlord its remarkable resilience. For all the blood, spilled champagne, and other odd fluids gracing its surface, the linoleum could endure. And the tenant who moved into Chris’s apartment was as impressed with the linoleum as the previous occupants, even if this tenant had not known its grisly history.

More champagne. I can dance!

Anyway, Stennie’s picture here is similar to what awaits me in the kitchen. And Gwenda is posting ballads. Meanwhile, Jeff has a few side effects of his own. And please help me out here, Hannah. Is there a period between the 1 and the 5 or am I starting to lose my sight with the champagne?

Again, feedback is welcome. Champagne lowers my inhibitions considerably.

Shifting over to straight stout temporarily after getting my neck in the noose.

Despite being out and about several times today for considerable durations of time, I have received twelve fucking phone calls from machines with recorded messages telling me precisely how I should vote this week. It would be one thing if these personages thought highly enough of me to call me personally, seeing as how I am going out of my way to answer the landline. No small task that, in this cell phone world. It would be one thing if even some volunteer called me personally and, once he has guessed within seconds that I’ll be voting against Prop. 75, we could then chat for 30 more seconds about the weather or the White Sox and then I could wish him well. Perhaps his name could be Joe and the two of us could bond over the fact that we both have monosyllabic first names.

But these are fucking machines. And they genuinely believe that if you hear a recording of Matt Gonzalez or Tom Ammiano sounding as if they’re speaking to you from some wind tunnel, that you will somehow take their boiler plate audio seriously.

In fact, since this week’s election is relatively modest compared to others (no President, no Governor, no Senator or Representative), I’ve actually been surprised that these phone calls have outnumbered the political junkets clogging my mailbox by a ratio of 3:1. I came home one evening last week and my voicemail was FULL!

Who was the asshole who thought up this scheme? And what’s his fucking number? Do these people not realize that when we pick up a phone, we are often in the middle of a very important task and that it’s a bit like coitus interruptus when the far more interesting task is upstaged by some standardized nonsense?

Granted, one could always turn the phone ringer off. One can choose not to pick up the phone at all. But this, of course, means more voicemails and more phone calls to return later. And why do that when, in one fell swoop, you can personally answer the call and manage your time more effectively (thus rendering the duration that it takes to listen to the voicemail and then return it) and get another phone call out of the way?

How disappointing it is to find one’s effrontery on this subject stymied when there’s that five second pause where you’re shouting “Hello? Hello? Is anybody there?” and then you suddenly realize that it’s a machine trying to figure you out the optimal moment to play the recording!

It’s enough to make one wear a Budweiser jacket, pick up chain-smoking again, and call out to a barful of strangers, “There oughta be a law!”

And I just realized that I jumped the gun by about an hour here. All because I forgot to set my clock back an hour. Are there any game rules here? One drink per post?

Since Jeff was thoughtful enough to provide a preface, I thought I’d offer my two sober bits well before the drinking. I believe all the necessary ingredients for the Burgess cocktail (Hangman’s Blood) are in the bar. I just need to get some stout. Given the remarkable elements contained within this beverage, I truly believe that elation of some kind will be had.

Normally when I write, I eschew all substances, with the possible exception of coffee. I’ve never understood the idea that writing is aided in some sense by being blotto. But I suppose it’s up to each and every writer. Faulkner is reported to have kept a bottle of whiskey by his desk. But I should also note that Richard Yates, one of the most profound alcoholic writers of all time, never once sipped while he was crafting his work during the day.

The question then is what can come from all this. My guess is not much at all, save some paeans to lonelniess and some astonishing leaps in logic. This would suggest that NaDruWriNi, in addition to functioning as the obverse of NaNoWriMo, has been brilliantly engineered as a grand ironic exercise. An extremely strange collaborative experiment that involves people staying in and drinking on a Saturday night, and then recording their experiences.

I should also warn readers daring to peruse tonight’s entries that I’ve been in a poetic mode of late, contemplating, in particular, Robert Herrick’s bawdy epigrams (a rose protruding from white indeed) and Thomas Gray’s dilemma of unlived lives and “mute inglorious Miltons.” Whether any of this will manifest itself here remains to be seen.

Because I have to get up early tomorrow, tonight’s drinking will commence at 6:00 PM PST and the first entry shortly after that. (For those who wish to follow along, the category tag is here.) Please feel free to contribute ideas and topics to write about. And be sure to encourage the other fine participants to keep on trucking.

Interestingly enough, Abroad Abroad reports that NaDruWriNi has made Craig’s List.

Cheers!